Echoes in Death(8)

Eve stopped, hands on hips, studying the room. “That’s a basic read of the crime scene, the two vics. The order of things may be different, but I don’t think the murder was premeditated. Daphne Strazza wouldn’t be alive if so.”

“I’d agree there.”

“Or he thought she was dead. She’s lying there, out, bleeding from the head. He’s a little panicked—so he gets his toys and runs home.”

“Either way he’d be a sadistic bastard.”

“Yeah, he would. And while this may be his first kill, it’s not his first time with the rest. We’ll look there.”

When the doorbell sounded, Roarke turned away. “I’ll see to that. It’s either your change of clothes or your partner.”

“If it’s Peabody, send her straight up, and McNab can start on electronics.”

Alone, she took another slow study of the room, the positioning of the furniture, the body, the suspected murder weapon, the pile of the female vic’s discarded clothes. She started toward the male vic’s closet, heard the unmistakable clomp of Peabody’s winter boots on the stairs, then a quick, high-pitched squeal.

She had her hand on the weapon she’d set on her field kit when she heard the follow-up, and just rolled her eyes.

“The shoes! Holy sacred stilettos, the shoes!”

“Zip it, Peabody.”

Rather than zipping it, Peabody made a yum sound, and stepped into the doorway holding one of Eve’s shoes as if it were a priceless gem.

“They’re so awesome mag it’s beyond all magnitude.” Peabody completed the pink theme—pink coat, striped cap heavy on the pink, pink fuzzy-topped boots—with her square face flushed pink with awe.

“Put the damn shoe down. Are those my clothes?”

“What? Oh, yeah, we got here just as the driver pulled up with—” Peabody squealed again as she finally tore her eyes from the sparkle of the shoe and looked at Eve. “The dress!”

“Shut up.” Eve snatched the garment bag from Peabody’s other hand.

“Oh, but it’s gorgeous! It’s … sexigance.”

“It’s a dress, and that’s not even a word.”

“Sexy elegance. It’s all so … you got blood and matter on the hem, and some blood— A good cleaner can get all that out.”

“That is my immediate priority. The dead guy over there? He’s an afterthought.”

“It’s just that—” Peabody broke off, focusing on the body and finding her inner cop. “He won’t have to worry about having that suit cleaned. He was a doctor, right? No physician healing himself this round. Any update on the wife’s status?”

“No. We’ll get to that. I’ve notified the sweepers and the morgue. I’ve got TOD, and the obvious on-scene COD. Seal up, start on the room. I’m using the bathroom to change.”

Shutting herself in the elaborate white-and-gold bathroom, Eve stripped out of the dress. Relief was immediate.

In the bag she found everything she needed. She tried not to think of Summerset selecting and packing her underwear—that way lay madness—but pulled it on, dragged on soft wool trousers, blissfully black, a pale gray sweater, her weapon harness and main police issue, sturdy black boots, a black jacket with needle-thin gray stripes.

He’d included the cases for the jewelry she wore, so she took it off, piece by piece, puzzled out the coordinating cases. He’d also included her ankle holster—she had to give him props for that as she strapped it on.

That left her coat, the snowflake hat she’d grown fond of, a scarf with black, gray, and red stripes—she could live with the red—and a pair of surely insanely expensive fur-lined gloves she’d lose in no time.

Feeling like herself again, she rolled her shoulders, glanced at the ornately framed mirror over the long vanity. Said, “Shit!”

Real clothes (even if they were embarrassingly fashionable) aside, she still had on her fancy party face. And had no way to take it down to cop.

She grabbed the garment bag, stepped out. “Peabody!”

“Sir!” Snapping to it, Peabody stuck her head out of Anthony Strazza’s closet.

“Do you have any gunk? You know, the gunk that takes off the gunk?” To illustrate, Eve circled a finger in front of her face.

“Cleanser? Enhancement remover? No, not with me.”

“Crap, crap, crap.”

“You look good.”

“Another of my top priorities.”

“No, really. You still look like a hard-ass. In fact, the lip dye only boosts the hard-assery.”

“Bullshit.” But since previous experience had taught her that soap and water simply smeared everything so the skin looked like one livid bruise, she opted to forget her face.